


Damaged Goods

by mneis



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Bathing/Washing, Bondage, Bottom Derek Hale, Bottom Derek Hale/Top Stiles Stilinski, Butt Plugs, Derek Hale Deserves Nice Things, Derek Hale Needs a Hug, Enemas, Hurt Derek, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Medical Examination, Medical Procedures, Sexual Slavery, Slavery, Top Stiles Stilinski, the following tags don't apply yet but will in the future
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-17
Updated: 2020-06-17
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:47:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24766423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mneis/pseuds/mneis
Summary: Master!Stiles/ Slave!Derek Hurt/Comfort AUEverybody who's anybody has a domestic slave to keep house and run errands, but Stiles is a nobody. He's making his way in the world but he has a long way to go before he can call himself a somebody. Stiles receives his inheritance and allocates a portion of the funds to the purchase of a slave. The state warehouse rotates its stock on the first Saturday of every month, and like clockwork, Stiles is there, examining the latest acquisitions. While browsing the discounted stock, Stiles chances upon a diamond in the rough. Unlike the rest of the dregs, the slave that catches his eye is pretty in the face and nicely built, but its horribly scarred from years of abuse. This is the story of how Stiles acclimates his abused pleasure slave to the life of a beloved domestic.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 14
Kudos: 110





	Damaged Goods

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is my second story in 4 years. I don't consider myself a writer; I write only when I have the mind for it. The first story I posted here to AO3 took 2 years to complete, and that was frustrating for both me and my readers. That story is both well-read and well-received- I never thought a fic of mine would reach 90k hits! But two years to finish a story, and another two years to post the next? I promised myself that I wouldn't post another story until the whole thing was complete, so here we are, two years later, with a story I'm ready to share!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Note: this is an introductory chapter. Please refer to end notes for a summary of events.

The worst stock was kept in the back. If a customer wanted to see whatever dregs were being pawned off for pennies on the dollar, then he first had to make his way through the endless aisles of finer goods up for auction. The warehouse was big; even the laziest employees regularly walked seven miles each day, and the enthusiastic ones, twice that. The goods were neatly arranged in rows, displayed on short pedestals with plenty of staff nearby to assist customers who might want a closer look. The most expensive products were kept up front: new things, pretty things, rare things.

But Stiles wasn't here for the new, or the pretty, or the rare. He couldn't afford them. With a solid payment plan, he could maybe afford something kind of new, or mostly pretty, or sort of rare, but he wasn't interested in going into debt. So, Stiles walked down aisle after aisle, turning this way and that, until he found himself at the back of the warehouse.

Even the front of the warehouse had a smell to it, being sour with sweat, but the large doors at the entrance, ever propped open, allowed the fresh summer breeze to carry away the worst of it. The back had no such luxury. The farther Stiles went, the more the stench of sweat and fear and excrement grew. There weren't nearly as many staff in the back. Guards sulked about or leaned into corners, buried in their phones or prodding at the goods. The goods back here weren't allocated neat little pedestals; rather, they were kept in large enclosures, surrounded by bars, with ten to twenty items per enclosure. The enclosures- pens, as they're called- have a long trough running along the back where the products can relieve themselves. The troughs were flushed every hour on the hour, but the stench of waste persisted.

The products themselves were almost deserving of such an atmosphere. The vast majority were relegated to the pens simply because they'd grown old. Once a slave hit forty, his value only decreased with each passing year, and financially, it was wiser to auction him off to a rendering plant, where his healthy organs fetched a nice sum on the private market, or even to a mine, where his value was measured by what remained of his physical strength.

At 25, Stiles had no interest in something near twice his age, so he focused his search on the subset of dregs that were relegated for something other than their years: the used, the crippled, the broken. Stock was rotated on the first Saturday of every month, so every month, Stiles diligently made the three-hour drive to the nearest state warehouse. His budget was some twenty grand, about a quarter of his inheritance. Twenty grand for a dreg was excessive, but taxes, house fees, and registration all added up. For another ten, twenty thousand more, he could get himself a graded slave- it would be a C-grade brute, but it would be ten years younger than the dregs, and true, he could probably train it to suit his needs, but Stiles had neither the time nor the experience for such a pursuit. Besides, if Stiles was being honest, the C-grades were rather ugly. If they were prettier in the face, they'd be B-grades, after all.

Stiles wasn't one to describe himself as patient, but with twenty grand on the line, he could wait. He perused the dreg pens month after month, occasionally calling a slave forward to present. The desolate beasts sometimes needed the guards to encourage them forward, and they were all the more miserable for it. They whispered to him through the bars. They begged to be purchased, with promises of obedience and loyalty and favors. Stiles felt for them, he did, but this behavior indicated that the slave lacked voice training, or even common sense. A slave who spoke out of turn was sure to be trouble, so he passed them over every time.

This month's lot didn't look much better than any of the others. Stiles took his time. He wandered up and down the pens, pausing to consider any fresh stock that caught his eye. He wrote a few of their numbers down, to inquire about later. A slave's history was an important factor in making a decision, especially when purchasing for a domestic role. He mostly had his eye out for the newly enslaved: if they had just been a bit prettier, or a bit younger, or more athletic, they'd be standing on the pedestals with the graded stock. Stiles was looking for a cheap, easy transition, and he figured that it wouldn't be too hard to settle a reasonable former-person down into the role of a domestic slave. Stiles was an educated young professional, and he was moving up in the world. He needed someone to clean his house, prepare his meals, run his errands, and maybe suck him off. Traditionally these duties would go to his spouse, but Stiles had no mind for marriage, and even if he did marry someone, he'd never expect them to take on responsibilities that could just as easily be managed by a well-trained domestic.

Once he'd made his rounds, he made them again, this time bringing himself right up to the bars, vying for a better look at the items that huddled near the back. He knew by now that the most desperate lot lingered at the front, so now he wanted to see what else the pens had in store. One beast caught his eye. It lay on its side, back to the trough, head tucked chin to chest. Stiles couldn't get a good look at its face. The slave's number, being scrawled across the collarbone and flank, was obscured by the position as well. But Stiles could see that it had a full head of thick, dark, hair, and that it was finely muscled, if not a little thin.

Stiles called out to the slave. "Ey, boy in the back. Dark hair, on your side. Stand up!"

It didn't move. Stiles ordered the slaves that were milling about the enclosure to rouse it. There was a moment of hesitation, but a lawful order from a free man was an order, so one of the slaves walked up to the prone figure. It bent over and whispered something. The dark-haired beast looked up.

It was a handsome thing. Thick, dark brows, a strong jawline, with fine lips and a straight nose. It was slow to stand, each motion careful and controlled, never turning away from Stiles. Upright, it was as tall as Stiles, if not a little more. The collar around its neck was solid brass, and its nipples were ringed with heavy brass hoops. It still had hair on its arms, legs, and chest, but its genitals were shaved bare.

Stiles could barely believe it. There had to be a catch. Pretty in the face, with a nice build, and not yet old? It had to be relegated to the dregs for some reason. Stiles studied its face a little more closely, and was certain the beast couldn't be near forty. Behavioral problems, then? Likely, but it was still worth looking into. He picked his jaw up off the floor, scrawled down the slave's number, and with what he hoped was a calm, commandeering voice, ordered the slave back to rest. It sat down much the same way it stood up, with calculated movements, never once facing away from Stiles, and then it lied down and buried its head once again.

Stiles wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth. He made his way to the information booth, armed with his notebook of slave numbers. He ignored his list of prospects, opting to immediately request the profile on the dark-haired beauty he saw just moments ago. The guard at the desk verified the information and handed Stiles the state's documentation.

OFFICIAL DOCUMENT - STATE OF CALIFORNIA  
CALIFORNIA STATE SLAVE MARKET - BEACON COUNTY & INCORPORATED AREA  
STOCK PROFILE  
STATE ID: 302095  
FEDERAL ID: CA-04-603-2095  
CURRENT OWNER: STATE OF CALIFORNIA  
PROVENANCE: ARGENT, KATE (F); ARGENT, CHRIS (M)  
AGE AT ACQUISITION: 18  
AGE AT STATE ACQUISITION: 32  
STOCK HISTORY:  
* Slave 302095/CA-04-603-2095 was acquired as collateral by MR. ARGENT, CHRIS while pursuing a private debt collection.

* Slave 302095/CA-04-603-2095 was a juvenile at the time of acquisition. It was housed at Facility J-0934-CA.

* Slave 302095/CA-04-603-2095 reached the age of majority and was registered as the property of MR. ARGENT, CHRIS.

* Slave 302095/CA-04-603-2095 was classified as a domestic slave.

* Slave 302095/CA-04-603 was sold for the amount of $1.00 USD (one US dollar) to MS. ARGENT, KATE.

* Slave 302095/CA-04-603-2095 was classified as a pleasure slave.

* Slave 302095/CA-04-603-2095 was placed into state custody following the arrest of MS. ARGENT, KATE.

* Slave 302095/CA-04-603-2095 became property of the state following the conviction of former owner MS. ARGENT, KATE.

* Slave 302095/CA-04-603-2095 was classified as a dreg and transferred to CALIFORNIA STATE SLAVE MARKET - BEACON COUNTY & INCORPORATED AREA for immediate sale

END STOCK HISTORY

A dreg slave with serious behavioral issues or health problems would have a note explaining the reason for its classification. Stiles waited while the guard assisted another customer. He asked if there was any more documentation on this slave. The guard took the paper and scanned it. He frowned, but then his eyes lit up with recognition.

"Oh, this is for tall, dark, and handsome?"

Stiles blushed. "Do you know why it’s a dreg?"

"You mean you don't recognize the name? Kate Argent? It was all over the news. She was a pornographer, a real sadist, and her slaves were the 'stars' of the show. She made some pretty fucked up films. This one here was her favorite. You get a gander at his back?"

"No, it was lying down,"

"It looks like Freddy Krueger got him. I'd say whatever it was they flailed him with had bits of metal tied in. Some of the scars wrap around his ribs. He's got a nice face but he's damaged goods. Probably all kinds of fucked in the head, too. Fourteen years of torture. S'why he's a dreg,"

Stiles did recall seeing that story on the news a few times, but he couldn't say he remembered what the outcome was. "Do you know what happened to Kate?"

"Life in solitary. She'll be executed one day, but they won't tell her when. One morning the guards will come in, drag her out of her cell, and hang her in the yard,"

"I remember now," Stiles said. "Her brother was a slave dealer, and the one who turned her in. She went behind his back and used his business to forge provenance on a slave. That slave turned out to be a missing person, a free man,"

"Yeah, shit's fucked. Any other slaves pique your interest?"

Stiles swallowed. "I'd like to see this one," he said. The guard opened his mouth and stuttered out a half-comment before his mind caught up to his mouth; dissuading a potential customer could get him fired. He laughed some generic line about interesting taste, and quickly paged another guard to retrieve the slave. He escorted Stiles to an examination room, and a state dealer took over from there.

The state dealer was a fine older gentleman, dressed to the nines and with a bull-hide whip on his left hip and a handheld taser on his right. The room was tastefully decorated in a minimalist fashion, all pine wood and white accents. The dealer offered Stiles a drink. He accepted- whiskey, on the rocks. The dealer fetched a decanter and poured them both a finger before sitting next to Stiles on the plush couch that faced the presentation pedestal. They talked about nothing in hushed voices until a knock sounded on the door. The dealer excused himself to facilitate the slave's entry.

The beast hobbled to the pedestal, head down and in fetters. Stiles sipped at his drink. He ordered it to flex, squat, present, and bend. He ordered it to erection, and when the slave was done jacking, he was pleased to see that it was indeed a grower. He ordered the slave to turn around and was met with hesitation. The nearby guard beat the slave with his club, apologizing for its impudence. The beast turned around and Stiles got his first good look at its hide.

It was a disaster, a web of deep white scars and fresh pink cuts. The scarred flesh caught the light and looked almost iridescent. Some places, especially up near the shoulders, were so crossed with whip-scars that the flesh sunk in like a crater, rimmed with hard tissue. Its rump and thighs were mostly clear of injury, save for a few faded switch scars.

Stiles again ordered the slave to flex, squat, and present. He requested a pair of gloves and ordered the slave to bend. In fetters, it couldn't reach around to part its cheeks, but Stiles had no qualms with doing so himself. He pulled at the flesh and examined the slave's hole. He feathered at the rim with his gloved index finger- it had been lubricated for him- then pushed inside, feeling around the silky walls.

"It's tight and pink," he said. "I was told this was a pleasure slave, and that it's last owner was a woman. Was it not fucked?"

The dealer was quick to answer. "Yes, this was a pleasure slave, and it was, in fact, subjected to extreme penetration, but it has been in state custody since it was seized following its previous owner's arrest. Fornication amongst slaves is strictly forbidden, and fornication between guards and state-owned slaves is illegal. Because of its unique legal circumstances, it's been some time since its hole's seen use,"

Stiles removed his finger and disposed of the gloves. He ordered the slave to face him and get down on it's knees. It obeyed. Stiles grabbed it by the hair, turned its head this way and that. A deep blush had set into its face and spread to its chest. Its ears were a little funny, and the front teeth stuck out a bit, but the rest of it was simply magnificent, if you could look past the ruined hide. He grabbed the slave's jaw and forced its head upward.

The slave respectfully kept its gaze lowered. "Look at me," Stiles commanded. The slave raised its eyes. They were void of life, knowing only pain, shame, and despair. But it was sensitive about its scars, and it blushed at being penetrated; some form of pride or humanity held out despite half a lifetime of torture. Or maybe it was just scared. A deformity like this attracted two types of buyers. The most obvious would be a quarry overseer. It was too big for the mines, so instead it would be sent to a quarry, where it would labor day-in and day-out under the hot sun with meager rations. It would have maybe three more years of life under those conditions. The other more sinister buyer would be a sadist, someone who can't get off without torturing their partner. The scars on its back were evidence that it could handle a high level of abuse, and that it wouldn't fight back.

Stiles said as much to the dealer as he examined the slave. He checked its teeth and its tongue, pinched and pulled at its nipples, then ordered it to stand upright so that he could fondle its waning erection. He was discussing the sadist as he weighed its hefty balls. The slave trembled at his words; Stiles gave the beast a gentle squeeze, eliciting another shudder.

Stiles finished his evaluation. He washed his hands in the en suite bathroom and returned to the couch. The slave stood as right and proper as it could under the weight of its fetters. Stiles sipped at his whiskey, taking his time to take in the sight. Some fifteen minutes later, once Stiles threw back the last of his drink, the dealer leaned in and asked for his thoughts. Stiles ignored the question, and instead he asked the dealer to give his professional opinion on the slave's prospects. Stiles might be shopping for a dreg but he's examined dozens of slaves over the past few months. He knew how to play the game.

The dealer knew this, too, so he settled for a safe answer. He cited Stiles' earlier assessment of prospective buyers. "Its physique is perfect for the quarries- tall, not too lean, and not yet old. It has a high tolerance for strict discipline, so it should do well in such a demanding environment. But that same tolerance can transfer to a more specialized role, where it can meet the needs of society's more… depraved men. It's a public service, really. Lots like this keep free society safe by providing an outlet for anger and sexual frustration." The dealer finished the last of his own drink. He gestured to the decanter, an invitation for another round, but Stiles waved his hand and shook his head. The dealer continued. "But there is a third kind of buyer, sir. This slave is broken. It has spent half its life being used and abused for the entertainment of others. Its accustomed to being fucked, so it would serve a male master quite well, but it was owned by a female, so one can assume that its trained to plow and lick to some degree. I'd go so far as to say it's docile. It would make for a competent bed slave, willing to do anything and everything. It could even make a nice a domestic, but that would require a good bit of training…"

"You're right about that. Women are put off by male pleasure slaves because of the physical power imbalance. A slave that's as broken as this one would be a lot less intimidating, despite its height and musculature," Stiles said. An idea came to mind. "Slave, would you like that? Go home with a nice lady, be her sex toy?"

The slave shuffled a bit, looking unsure. The guard raised his club and it flinched, but Stiles waved him back. It licked its lips. "Master, it would be happy to serve any Master or Mistress, Master,"

"Any master? Really? You'd be happy to break your back in a quarry, or go to a sadist who will beat you within an inch of your life?" Stiles smiled, watching for the slave's reaction.

It hunched in on itself a little, not used to questioning. "Master, yes, Master, it is always happy to serve, Master,"

Stiles hummed. "A little wordy, isn't it?" The dealer agreed, and reminded him that muting is one of the in-house services they offer after purchasing. "No, I like its voice. I'll give you six,"

The dealer sat up a little straighter. Stiles turned to face him, readying himself to negotiate. His offer had caught the man off guard. They locked eyes. "The estimated price for this item is eight grand, sir. If not for the state of its hide, bidding for a lot such as this would _start_ at ten times as much,"

"And I have no doubt that the auction would be intense. But the hide isn't the only part of the slave that's broken. I'll give you six,"

"Eight, and I'll waive the house fees,"

"Even if you do, after taxes and registration, I'll be out twelve grand. Meet me at seven, you waive the house fees, and we'll have a deal," Stiles countered. He stuck out his hand.

The dealer hesitated, but only for a moment. He took Stiles' hand, gave it a firm shake, and with that, the deal was done. The guard shuffled the slave off the pedestal for processing. The dealer brought out the paperwork. Stiles read the documents carefully, and then he and the dealer went through it once more; the man explained the intricacies of the terms of sale and ownership, and broke down the math behind the taxes and registration fees so as to be completely transparent about the final cost.

"…And because this item was surrendered through a court case, there's a state court fee of 3% and a federal court fee of 2%. That brings the grand total to $11,255.45. Now, the transaction isn't complete until payment is received in full, but by signing this document, you agree that you will pay the amount due in full within 10 business days, and failure to do so will result in a 10% cancellation fee,"

"That sounds about right. I'd like to pay today, if possible. I bank with Monroe; do you have an authorized agent on staff, or should I call my bank?"

"We do. Please, follow me,"

The dealer brought Stiles to the front of the house, to the financial offices. A sweet secretary guided them to the Monroe office. The room was large, but the space was dominated by a rich mahogany desk and the fine leather chairs stationed before it. The dealer waited outside while Stiles and the agent verified his identity and confirmed that he authorized the amount of $11,255.45 to be paid immediately to the California State Slave Market.

The dealer was called inside. Stiles signed the papers (in triplicate) and with verbal and written confirmation, the agent facilitated the transfer. The sale was made.

"Congratulations, Mr. Stilinski! Welcome to the world of slave ownership." The dealer enthusiastically shook his hand as the agent filed away the paperwork. "As we discussed, you have 30 days to complete the registration. All of the fees have been paid in full, so all you need to do is make an appointment with a private, third-party vet for an intake examination. The vet you choose for this examination should be the same vet that you plan on using for future appointments, so be sure to pick one in good standing,"

Stiles knew he was smiling like an idiot, but he couldn't help himself. He really was moving up in the world. He might just be okay after all. "Thank you for everything. We still have some business to discuss, don't we? I have a few simple requests, before I take it home,"

"Of course, sir! As you know, we offer a handful of basic services as a courtesy,"

"Yes. I've read about what modifications are available, but I'd like to see how the slave adjusts before I commit to anything major,"

"Very wise, sir," said the dealer.

Stiles and the dealer made their way to the loading dock on the side of the warehouse. Purchased slaves stood in neat rows of narrow cages, waiting for their new masters to pick them up. A parking valet took Stiles' ticket and left to bring his jeep around to the dock. The dealer confirmed with the foreman that the slave was ready and in a holding cell, and asked what services Stiles would like before the slave is released to his custody.

"I've got a three hour drive ahead of me, maybe even four, with traffic. Drain its bladder, please, and put a diaper on it, if you have them. I'm not going to stop for it to relieve itself, and I don't want it dirtying itself in my car. Remove the nipple rings, and remove the collar, too. I've got one in my car that will suite it better than that ugly brass thing,"

"That's easy enough- yes, we can accommodate your requests, sir," the foreman said. He turned to some nearby workers and bellowed, "James! Scott! Cell 27. Drain it, pad it, and get rid of the collar and rings!"

Stiles watched as the workers roughed his slave out of the cell. Their terse treatment irked him- they should be more careful with his property- but he wasn't about to let something so trivial put him in a sour mood, not today. He couldn't dwell on it for long anyway; the valet returned with his ticket and his keys. Stiles opened his trunk, then opened the travel crate within. It had been a tight fit to get it in the back, and a slave of stature like his own will find it a bit cramped, but it worked. Stiles retrieved the collar from the front passenger seat. He left it with the dealer while he went to take a leak, and by the time he was back, his slave was standing beside his car, unfettered and flanked by guards.

"We're all set! Its bladder has been drained via catheter, and as per your request, it's been fitted with additional protection. The rings and collar have been removed," the foreman said.

"Excellent, thank you." Stiles turned to the dealer. "The collar, please?"

The dealer took one last look before he returned it to Stiles. "That is a fine collar, sir. If you don't mind my asking, where did you get it?"

Stiles turned it over in his hands. Two inches wide, the collar consisted of a thick lining of soft leather over a thin steel band. It could fit to size via a ratchet system, and once locked in place, the collar could neither tighten nor loosen without key access. Stiles knew all too well how it worked.

"I'm an engineer. I made it- I mean, I designed it. I programmed a machine to cut it, and I can't sew- a friend of mine stitched the lining. But the design is all my own,"

"It's very impressive. I hope you don't mind my saying, but it's obvious you're an educated young man, and I think you have a very bright future ahead of you." The dealer smiled at him, a genuine, paternal smile, something Stiles hadn't seen in a good long while.

"Again, thank you. I don't mean to brag, but yes, I think so, too." The dealer laughed, and so did Stiles and the foreman and the guards.

"Go on, then, get the beast collared and we'll help you load it into your crate,"

Stiles approached his slave. It had been silent and unmoving throughout the whole exchange, but now that Stiles was close, it started to sway a bit, shifting its weight from foot to foot. Stiles walked around it, and without much ceremony, encircled its neck with the fine collar. He made quick work of tightening the screw on the ratchet system, keeping two fingers between the slave's neck and the soft leather. When he had a good fit, he locked it off, and gave it a compulsory tug.

"Move your head around, slave. That's right, up and down, left and right. How's it feel? Too tight, not tight enough?" The slave respectfully complained that the collar pressed too tightly against its throat when its chin was down to its chest, so Stiles adjusted the system. "Better?" The slave went through its motions again, confirmed that it was better, and graciously thanked its master for the courtesy and for providing it with such a fine collar.

"Get it in the crate." The guards folded the slave into the trunk. It was rendered on its hands and knees, back bowed. Before the guards closed up the crate, Stiles called out from the passenger seat. He came around back and locked a strict leather blindfold over the slave's eyes.

"Good choice," said the dealer. "Slaves are much calmer when they're isolated,"

Stiles also had a bottle of water with him. He let the slave take a few sips, knowing that it hadn't been watered since that morning. A little water to keep it hydrated wouldn't hurt, and besides, it wore protection.

"You be good now," Stiles whispered. "We've got a bit of a drive ahead of us, so just curl up now, alright?" He tousled its dark hair, then lifted the gate and locked the crate. Stiles once again thanked the dealer and the foreman and the guards, and with his newest prized possession secured in the trunk, he pulled out of the lot and started on the road to home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stiles wants a nice domestic slave, but he can't afford anything fancy. After months of perusing the cheap lots, he chances upon a slave that's pretty in the face but seriously abused. He examines it and decides that it's simply too good to pass up. He haggles down the price, signs the papers, and readies to take his new slave home.
> 
> WC: 4696


End file.
